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I give you
a flower. You
take it. You
put it in a vase. You
she loves me, she loves me
not. You smell it. You
take
a picture of it. You think
its beautiful
and put it
in the
pages of your favorite book
and keep it
and find it
when you're old. You
discover that it is
edible
and you eat it
in a salad
and marvel
at being wild like that. You
take it
and drag it slowly
up my leg
my inner thigh
along the line of my cheek, my jaw, a flower a
feather to my lips. You
put a flower
on my grave
when I'm dead.
I water my flowers. I hope
they take root
I hope
they flower. I hope
they come back
after
a long winter. I
hope they last. I know
they're beautiful. I am
never over flowers. I give you
the substance
in the packet
that keeps flowers
alive
for longer
than anyone thought
possible
and everyone says
they're beautiful
and they're beautiful I finally
fall asleep
to the sound of
night flowers
bursting open
this once a year
their perfume
everywhere
their perfume
in my neck, my hair, you
inhale you are
drunk with
flowers and with
me and I am
never over flowers I am
never over I am
never over you I am
blooming I am
full I am
dripping petals and
drops of dew I am
adorning you
I am
full bloom
you are
in my hair I am
a scent
that makes
you close your eyes and
breathe in
how drunk
we are how
never over
how complex, and simple how
loved and
not noticed how
encouraged and gardened and tended and
grown and how
in drought, and desert, and how
flowers smell, and perfume
the very air
and how it
makes everyone
happy that there are flowers and that we once
threw flowers under
the feet of
horses as
men went to battle and how we use
flowers to say I am
sorry and I
miss you and I love
you and I am
drunk and beautiful I am
flowering I am
behind your ear I am
in your hair and
in your fingers and in
the end I am
she loves me I am
yours I am
wild on the vine I am
in a jelly jar
at home
where I
wake up to a
flower on my pillow from
you
saying I will
be right back I can't
wait
to tell you
how beautiful
this morning was I
picked you
a flower I will

be right back.

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We are going to become old, and I will sit as close to you as I want to.

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I'm the surgeon.

My hand

has a perpetual

tremor and there is no record

of cadaver

of lecture and training

of knowing this, doing this, teaching this

in my background.

The Filipino scrub nurse

knows it

gives me inscrutable stare

behind her mask

glare of operating lights

opaquing her judgement, her eyes.

I'm your surgeon

and you are prepped and draped

laid before me

under

somewhere in the vapor. How you came

to be

sprayed with buckshot

is unknown to me

not in the record

not witnessed by anyone in this room. You'll

keep that mystery.

I excise you

bit by bit. I am

unqualified and the room

is silent what would they

love to say?

I have done

the best I could and

we have

both survived.

In the cold, and hush

I untie

my mask, my gown, remove

my gloves

and touch each one of your

wounds, then

climb up onto the table

beside you

and kiss

each place, with my mouth

my lips

to your broken skin

and whisper to you

with my hands

in your hair

This was mine to do.

Vow

I honor your path.

I drink from your well.

I bring an unprotected heart

to our meeting place.

I hold no cherished outcome.

I will not negotiate by withholding.

I am not subject to disappointment.

- traditional Celtic

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Sometime during the

night I slip out

from between the sheets and go

out to the backyard

and dig a shallow grave. I lay

Resistance

down in it

and cover her up

patting down the gritty dirt over her

face, eyes, mouth, belly. The dew on the grass makes a mud

on me and I can see the little

mound of her feet

by the starlight. The stars are moving.

Back to bed. Surrender

curls up beside me

nestles her face in the curve of my neck

breath like a moth

on my skin, in my ear

intertwines her fingers with mine

presses the soles of her feet

to my legs.

The Truth watches us both

from a dark chair in the corner of the room

gets up, walks heavy-footed

into the bathroom

and has a smoke with the lights off.

Morning comes with a breeze

bright white light

reflecting off the paint

and a luff of the curtains. I have

no memory

only the evidence

of the dry dirt and grass collected

by my feet

at the foot of my bed

and a vague recollection

of a dream

in which I tended some piece

of my heart

stored in a battered aluminum milk vessel

pressed into the coals

of a small fire

to keep it warm

and alive

high up in the Andes

with the wind whistling

waiting

just me

and the goats for company.

Some Accidents are Happy

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Grieve not

nor speak of me with tears

but laugh and talk of me

as if I were beside you

I loved you so

'twas heaven here with you.

Isla Paschal Richardson